


Nor Helped Nor Harbored

by illumynare



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Thorin's A+ coping skills, shut up and let them hug you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone survives the Battle of Five Armies, but Thorin can't forgive himself for bringing them all so near to disaster. He declares himself an exile. It's no more than he deserves.</p>
<p>But it turns out to be a little more difficult than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Thorin first wakes after the battle, he thinks he is dying. The pain in his side is excruciating, and something shifts inside him when he breathes.

_I must send for Bilbo,_ he thinks. _I must make take back my words and make peace with him before I die._

But then Balin and Dwalin and Óin bustle into the room. Before Thorin can ask them for news of the burglar, they tell tell him not to worry, the worst danger is past, he will stand on his feet and sit on his throne again. "And doubtless give more orcs reason to tremble!" says Balin, with a nervous chuckle that betrays how close he came to death.

They tell him that the battle is won, and with Gandalf's aid, Fíli is negotiating peace with the three armies left standing at their doorstep. For his sister-sons both live--in fact, against all odds, not one of the Company that he led so foolishly into danger has died.

Thorin listens. He nearly weeps with relief. And he knows that he can never apologize to any of them. If he were maimed or dying, perhaps he could beg their forgiveness. But now, when gold, Arkenstone, and the halls of Erebor are his? When his pride and greed have nearly brought them all to ruin, and yet he's paid no price for it? He won't insult them with such gross presumption.

They don't tell him what has happened to Bilbo, and he doesn't dare ask. He doesn't deserve to know.

* * *

Soon he is on his feet. Soon they think him well enough to hear that while Fíli survived with the battle with only a few minor cuts, Kíli took a blow to the head. No one knows how much damage there will be when he wakes. 

If he wakes.

Thorin tries to visit him. He gets as far as the doorway of the sickroom, and then he sees Fíli bent over the bed, golden braids hanging in his face. He remembers plaiting that golden hair and humming songs of their old homeland as Dís's fingers wove through Kíli's dark locks. He remembers promising her that he would look after them.

He remembers how, when he was lost to the gold-sickness, Fíli alone dared say to him, _Uncle, what use is the gold if we lie dead? What good is the Arkenstone when three armies bar our people from Erebor?_ And he remembers how, when he raised his hand to strike Fíli for his impudence, Kíli sprang between them.

That's when he flees, before Fíli can look up and demand to know what became of Thorin's promise. Before he can ask why their glorious homecoming turned into a squabble for gold and their beloved uncle into a tyrant.

* * *

"You doubt yourself," says Balin that evening, and pats his shoulder. "They say wise dwarves often do."

Thorin doesn't waste breath on a reply. He has never been a dwarf given to self-doubt. He's always known who he is and what he deserves. No matter how desperate circumstances became--no matter how he had to lower his head and keep silence and beat out horseshoes for contemptuous men--he always held fast to one sure thought: _I am Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór King Under the Mountain, and before I die, I will sit on the throne of my fathers and give my people a home._

He still has no doubts. He knows who he is: the dwarf whose pride and greed nearly robbed his people of a home a second time, who nearly destroyed ten friends, two nephews, and one hobbit whom he has no right to call 'friend' anymore.

And he knows exactly what he deserves.

* * *

He leaves a note. It's a coward's way out, but Balin and Dwalin, at least, are still foolish enough to ask him to stay. (He hopes they are. He is still greedy enough that he can't help hoping.) 

So he leaves a note sitting upon the throne.

_I, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, in consideration of my crimes against my people, name myself an exile and an outlaw, not to be fed nor forwarded nor helped nor harbored, my death to receive neither weregild nor vengeance, and not one of the House of Durin to show me friendship ever again._

Balin will find the note. He'll be saddened, and worse, disappointed. Dwalin will be furious. But they will both, in their heart of hearts, be relieved. Thorin has seen the caution in their eyes when they speak to him of the gold, of the Arkenstone, of Bard and Gandalf and Thranduil. He has heard the silences when they are clearly thinking of Bilbo but do not dare say anything at all. How can they? Thorin fell to the gold-sickness, as he once swore he never would; they must always wonder what might bring the madness back upon him.

A king who cannot be trusted is a disaster for his people. 

Thorin refuses to cause any more disaster. He will go. Fíli will rule in his stead, with Balin to advise him, Dwalin to protect him, and Kíli (if he ever wakes) to be his strong right hand. Erebor will be rebuilt and his people will have a home. All things will be as they should.

If one dwarf must wander the Wilderland alone forever, that's a small enough price to pay.

* * *

Three days out from the mountain, he's forced to admit that his wound isn't as healed as he had thought. Without Óin's daily poultices, the cut has swiftly flushed an alarming red and started to swell; it aches whenever he moves. Thorin washes the wound as best he can and re-binds it, but the next morning, it's even worse. 

So he's to die by infection. He's seen enough battlefields to know that it's a horrible way to go, but perhaps he'll be lucky and get carried off by fever before the true rot can set in.

When he runs into the orc-pack that afternoon, he realizes his luck is better still.

" _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ " he snarls, drawing sword and axe. He intends to die as he should have on the battlefield, but by Durin's beard he will take at least half these orcs with him.

Instead he kills them all.

Kneeling among the bodies of his foes, bleeding from the old wound in his side and a new slice in his shoulder, Thorin wonders what luck it is that dogs him, sparing him everything but dishonor.

But now darkness is growing at the edges of his vision. Perhaps he's done enough. Perhaps now he can finally go the halls of his fathers and find a little peace.

As he falls, he thinks he hears a high, startled, hobbit-like yelp. But he knows that's impossible.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin dreams of fire. Smaug crashes through the gates of Erebor, and Thorin walks into the flames blasting from the monster's throat. He's facing Azog on the cliff, and again he's defeated, but instead of cutting off his head, Azog builds a pyre over him and sets it alight. He's lying among the gold of Erebor, and Bilbo says, _You may have my share_ , and sews red-hot golden coins into his side.

When he finally wakes, the first thing he sees is flames. Thorin shudders and tries to rise, but as soon as he moves, the world rocks around him.

"No, no, no!" someone cries, grabbing his shoulders. "Lie back down, you great lummox."

He's still dreaming. He must be.

"Bilbo?" he croaks.

"Yes, yes, lie down--" Then Bilbo's hands spasm on his shoulders. "Thorin," he says, and there's a strange, colorless tone to his voice. "You're really awake."

His gut twists with shame. Bilbo's flat voice reveals everything: how he found Thorin lying among the orc corpses, how his soft heart wouldn't let him walk away from a dying dwarf, and how he realized too late that the dwarf was too foolish to die. And now he's stuck, no matter how he loathes it, nursing somebody he must despise--whose every breath is an insult--

"A clever observation, Master Baggins," he growls, pulling out of Bilbo's grip. This time he does manage to sit up. It's night; they're in a shallow cave in the side of a hill. Before them burns a neat little fire, while Bilbo's supplies lie stacked around them in piles.

Bilbo laughs shakily. "It’s been three days. I was starting to think you'd never wake up."

Thorin draws a slow breath. "It's enough," he says shortly.

"What?"

"You've done enough." Thorin waves a hand. "You can go, Master Baggins. I release you from--from--" He breaks off, because he really can't think what debt Bilbo might imagine to be binding him here. "But before you go," he plunges on, "I would take back my words and deeds at the gate. That was an ill return for all the good you have done us." 

The words feel like they're bleeding out of him, leaving him weak and helpless. But somehow he finds enough strength to raise his head and look Bilbo in the eye as he says, "I am sorry."

"Oh," says Bilbo.

Thorin nods heavily. There is no possible reply to his apology except such cruel insults as the soft-hearted hobbit will not use. He wonders if Bilbo will get up and leave this moment, or wait until morning. He’s not sure he can bear to lie here the rest of the night, listening to Bilbo’s snores and knowing he will never hear them again.

"That's all right," says Bilbo.

The words are so unexpected, it takes Thorin a moment to realize that Bilbo really said them, and another to respond. 

"I was going to kill you," he says finally.

"Yes, but you didn't, did you?" Bilbo shrugs. "All's well that ends well and water under the bridge, so to speak."

"I was going to kill you," Thorin repeats lowly, feeling sick.

He remembers how tiny and fragile Bilbo had felt in his hands when he shook him atop the walls of Erebor. He remembers the seething fury that made him want to throw the hobbit over the edge.

And then he remembers--no, he _sees_ it happen. The whites of Bilbo's eyes and the terrified O of his mouth in the instant that Thorin lets go. The flailing limbs as the hobbit hurtles down through the air. The gory splatter of blood and bone and brains on the rocks below. 

And he knows he would have laughed.

"Thorin. Thorin!"

He realizes that he is trembling, and that Bilbo is gripping his shoulders.

"What I mean is," the hobbit says quietly, "I forgive you."

“I was _going to kill you,_ ” Thorin snarls. How many times does he have to repeat his shame to make this imbecile understand?

“Yes, I gathered that at the time,” says Bilbo, and despite everything there’s a trace of a smile on his face. “Dangling me off the walls was a rather broad hint. But I also knew you weren’t yourself. And now you are.” 

As if losing his mind to the gold-sickness were no more horrible than losing his boots, and just as easily remedied.

“You’re a fool,” Thorin growls.

“I know. Cousin Lobelia’s been saying so for years.” He pats Thorin’s shoulder. “Now why don’t you have a drink of water and then lie back down before you collapse again?”

He’s been hewn by goblin axes within an inch of his life. He’s looked into the eyes of beloved comrades and seen the death of trust. He’s renounced all kith and kin so that they won’t be burdened with the shame of him, and he’s marched alone into the wilderness with nothing to hope for but death.

Yet it’s only now, as Bilbo looks at him with nothing but wry affection, that Thorin’s strength finally deserts him. Without a single protest, he lets Bilbo fetch him a drink of water, fuss over his bandages, and lay him back down to rest with an extra blanket. 

_He ought to despise me,_ he thinks, but the thought is fuzzy and weak now. What’s real is the crackle of the fire, the warmth of the blanket, and the soft, spicy scent of Bilbo’s pipe.

Thorin draws a slow, deep breath. The ache in his bones and his heart doesn’t seem to matter quite so much anymore. Faintly, he hears Bilbo begins to hum an old hobbit tune.

And then he sleeps.


End file.
